This was quick short essay was inspired by a tweet. This is an essay based on my stream of consciousness and flow.

I want to write something I think many women already know or will come to realize: Not everyone will like you, not everyone will love you. It might be harder for you to accept this depending…

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Nobody cares if you are angry after a certain age, it is what you can do with that anger that matters. If the anger is not leveraged, you will always lose. Being angry is not enough, what is that anger teaching you and how can you transform it? Where is that anger, is it the job of the anger (however …

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There are signs that your path is for you; there are things that you feel and see that others will not. You may try to explain it, some people in your life will never “get” it, and that may make you begin to doubt yourself. You sit, questioning your own vision, questions that lead you down a rabbit hole of fear. Y…

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“Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
along, and stand as ten thousand.
The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom’s gate.”
— Maya Angelou, Our Grandmothers from ‘I Shall Not Be Moved’

I have a boutique storytelling + art + design firm. I named it af…

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I am painting again. I started painting, sketching, and drawing back in 2018 when I had a very stressful corporate job that threatened to swallow me whole. Encouraged by an encounter with a sculptor and professor from Benin City, who was an artist in residence at the museum in the city, he told me not to beli…

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I posted one of my most random thoughts on politics on Twitter, not thinking too much of it. On Twitter just a couple of days ago, someone tweeted that Usha Vance, the wife of JD Vance (third or fourth name of his now), was seen making a public appearance without a ring. I laughed, as it took me two minutes or less to examine the photos to know this was…

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I originally wrote my short poem, ‘diaspora blues’ sometime around 2013 when I returned from visiting Nigeria. That trip changed my life completely, even though those I knew said so and lamented how withdrawn and much colder I had become. Now, befor…

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Over the phone,
as the evening sun on Sunday
pressed itself into my neighborhood
I watched the neighbor teaching his
four year old daughter to ride a bicycle
You confess your love for me over and over again
You say, “Nkemjika, I miss you so much.”
I say nothing, my words have dried up

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Your auntie died last week. You wrote a poem about her illness last December. In that poem, you described her husband as “sleeping” but what you were actually describing was a cruel man. A cruel man who slept through the…

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Each dream begins slowly. First, it is this tiny seed that you are unsure of where to plant. Then, you contemplate for a minute. You pace back and forth. You look at which season is best suited for the seed. Which soil works best? What time of day should you water it? You think and think about how that tiny little seed of yours can grow underneath the soil you have to till.

A few weeks ago, I stood under the bitter kola tree I have known all my life, shaded a bit by the sun as I watched my Auntie Dimma on the farm. She had left the house early—you have to leave early to avoid the heat of the sun. I had walked to see a dibia for a friend of mine. After greetings were exchanged, we called my friend, and the dibia consulted with her. He offered the liquor with prayers to the ancestors before pouring some for himself and some for me. It was sometime before noon. I remember because the sun was hot, but not as hot as it would be later.

I watched my auntie go through each mound that had been created from tilling the soil. She had told me her plans for the farm the day before. She had hired helpers; they had cleared the farm, removing what was, to create what would be. I watched as she walked through the farm, placing the small cocoyams she would be planting. After what seemed like an hour, she paused to drink water. I watched with very curious eyes, worried about the labor. Worried about my auntie. But my auntie has always relied on her strength. It was all she knew. I told her at night, as we sat to have dinner, after I had finished my research for the day, I told her to be careful. I was worried about the heat, the sun, and the hours under the weight of labor. She waved it off.

A week and a half later, my auntie called to say she fainted while farming, on another land, further away from our family house.

Now, where was I? Tiny, fragile dreams, right? They need a place to be planted, a place to grow.

When I began planning my exhibition last year, I knew I wanted it to feature only women artists. I did not need more than that theme. I knew my first work as a curator had to highlight women. I also needed it to have another caveat: only women living and working in Nigeria. You see, geographical privilege is something I have talked about; I have also written about it in an essay.

This tiny little seed was planted years ago, when I walked into an exhibition at the MOMA in San Francisco with a level of wonder. It happened again when I walked into The Broad and the MOMA in Los Angeles. That seed began to germinate when I spent months in Mexico—specifically in Oaxaca—where I jumped from one gallery to another, where I made a payment for a painting class but travelled before I began, where I painted for hours on the rooftop of the house in Oaxaca.

That seed continued to grow when I led the acquisition of Ozioma Onuzulike’s works. It continued to germinate when I was in Ghana, interviewing Kofi Agorsor. I believe we all have tiny little seeds. Dreams that live inside us. Some seem so small we toss them aside, or circumstances make it harder to see them come to fruition.

Daughters With Wings, the theme of my exhibition, was my first and only theme I came up with; it was the only name befitting of the vision. I knew it would always be Daughters With Wings, from my poem in Questions for Ada. As we round up the tiny details left before the exhibition opens tomorrow, I am proud of the team and what we have achieved. We started planning late summer of last year.

Yesterday, we had the press come into the gallery and speak to some of the artists about their exhibition. A few weeks ago, we had artists living in Lagos come into the gallery and sit through very short, interview-style videos. I have already posted the video of Adaoma Nnabeze on my Instagram, and I will be posting more videos of these artists.

All in all, I want us to know that tiny little seeds are allowed to take their time. It is okay to rest between germination. It is okay to take the old, if it is not working, and plant new seeds. You are allowed to have tiny, little big dreams.

“DAUGHTERS WITH WINGS”
CURATED BY IJEOMA UMEBINYUO
EXHIBITION OPENING:
MAY 10, 2025
2-6 PM
LOCATION: 202 BY ARTSPLIT. IKOYI, LAGOS.
11B MURTALA MUHAMMAD DRIVE, IKOYI

EXHIBITION ENDS:
JULY 26, 2025.

Made a playlist for the exhibition. So many sounds were picked because they particularly honor women who paved the way for Nigerian women in music. Covers on these posters include: Christy Essein-Igbokwe. Onyeka Onwenu. The Lijadu Sisters. Theresa Onuorah. Nelly Uchendu.

“we tried”
he said over the phone
"I tried…”
I corrected him

silence.

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In Lebanon,
as bombs erupted in Beirut,
Hawa was locked away
the Lebanese family left her behind
in the house where she had
rocked their children to sleep
mopped their floors
cooked their food
fed their hunger
nursed their children.

In Lebanon,
as bombs erupted in Beirut
Hawa was found beneath the rubble
her body crumbled
fear still in her eyes.

Her hands warmed
the…

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In my grandfather's house, this room was filled with books once. I remember because I spent hours here by myself, digging through the old books of my uncles. Their school library stamp was on them. The room has been turned into a kitchen by one of his sons; it is empty now of books…

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It can be extremely difficult to create a path you have not seen many people create. It can also be a lonely path—one that might make you a nihilist, a recluse, a pessimist most days. Yet sometimes, there is a glimmer of hope. One Sunday morning, you wake up early enough to meet your God, and even the dew on a plant becomes an ocean big enough to ins…

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My uncle is explaining how reincarnation works and why a particular child in my kindred is treated a certain way, because he is believed to be the reincarnation of my grandfather, his father. In Igbo culture, reincarnation is everything. A child wasn’t even given a name until their past life was checked.

There are many reasons to check a child’s past lif…

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This is a quick analysis of this photo using a bit of my academic background.

I do believe his lawyer is trying to humanize him. Beyond showing solidarity, she is also trying to align him with his class: educated, specifically Ivy League educated, and upper-middle class, for the public where the jury will be picked. You can a…

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The sweat from the back of your neck
falls into your shirt, making it stick.
You take it off—
your pain is in the waiting,
inside your room
in a house where you had children,
in a city where you married him.

The mosque wakes you up
or is it the sweat?

The call to prayer blends with the bell
of an evangelist who, at 5 a.m.,
screams about Jesu Christi.
Your breasts ache
you hold your scream in your chest
you hold your chaplet,
you mutter your prayers.

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At night, alone,
without pity,
she called herself back
to herself.

It was an ordinary day,
but a powerful night.

And one day,
one day,
on a day as ordinary as this,
you will call back your power,
you will remember who you are.

And you will take back
the power you gave away.
On that day,
as ordinary…

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